


La Petite Mort

by Space_gays_that_arent_in_space



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Angst and Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Horror, But also there kind of are, Cunnilingus, F/F, First Dates, Girls Kissing, Grimdark, Human Kanaya Maryam, Humanstuck, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kissing in the Rain, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, POV Rose Lalonde, POV Second Person, Porn With Plot, Reincarnation, Rose Lalonde and Dave Strider are Siblings, Sad with a Happy Ending, Sadstuck, Seer Rose Lalonde, Self-Doubt, The Horrorterrors (Homestuck), Valentine's Day, Vomiting, idk its complicated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 19:14:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29423622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Space_gays_that_arent_in_space/pseuds/Space_gays_that_arent_in_space
Summary: When you look in the mirror, you don’t quite recognize yourself. You can’t, but that’s okay, for you do not have to be yourself tonight, at least, not your true self. No, tonight you are Rose Lalonde, you are a beautiful creature with pale skin and bright eyes and wispy blonde hair that curls right above her shoulders. You’re a seductive, willowy thing that makes every girl fall in love with her from across the table with all the witty banter she’s capable of emitting. You are not Rosie or just Rose, you are not that gangly thing that curls in her bathtub and cries in ice baths with her mother’s old bottles, begging for the voices to leave you be, allow you this one chance. You are not the Rose who spends weeks locked up in her library, refusing to even glance at the outside world for burning her alive. This Rose who looks at you in the mirror, all dark lipstick and slinky satin dress that hugs what little she has in the right places, is the Rose that you will be bringing on this date with you.
Relationships: Rose Lalonde & Dave Strider, Rose Lalonde/Kanaya Maryam
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	La Petite Mort

**Author's Note:**

> First time I ever got a Holiday piece out on time. Please enjoy Rose losing her shit for however many thousand words and maybe expect more, I'm not certain. What I am certain of was how fun this was to write and how much I genuinely enjoyed myself doing this!!

When you look in the mirror, you don’t quite recognize yourself. You can’t, but that’s okay, for you do not have to be yourself tonight, at least, not your true self. No, tonight you are Rose Lalonde, you are a beautiful creature with pale skin and bright eyes and wispy blonde hair that curls right above her shoulders. You’re a seductive, willowy thing that makes every girl fall in love with her from across the table with all the witty banter she’s capable of emitting. You are not Rosie or just Rose, you are not that gangly thing that curls in her bathtub and cries in ice baths with her mother’s old bottles, begging for the voices to leave you be, allow you this one chance. You are not the Rose who spends weeks locked up in her library, refusing to even glance at the outside world for burning her alive. This Rose who looks at you in the mirror, all dark lipstick and slinky satin dress that hugs what little she has in the right places, is the Rose that you will be bringing on this date with you. 

Deep in your stomach you can feel it. It writhes inside of you, aching, fighting to be free, it is a monster that cannot be sated, it will not wilt without your care, no, instead it grows stronger. It writhes in your stomach and it reaches up to cradle your brain. It wraps around your insides and squeezes until there is nothing left of you except for the ugly, blackened pulp that you’ve always known was inside of you. It is your core. It is you. 

Your phone buzzes on the bathroom counter and you find your grip on the sink tightening. The marble countertop is cold beneath your hands, it’s grounding, and grounding is exactly what you need at a time like this. Most of your friends, namely Dave, can’t believe you’re going out on a date, as if your streak of remaining within the comfort of your home is nothing short of a conscious decision that you are able to give up on at any time. John and Jade support you, think that this sort of outing will be good for you in a way that you haven’t allowed yourself in ages, you want to think the same, but there is something in you, a gut feeling, that is promising that this night will burn you to ash. You don’t let it affect you. Nothing affects you. Despite the fact that nothing affects you, for you are simply the kind of girl that things such as irrational fears and a streak of correct gut feelings cannot stop, you can’t help the sense of anxiety that permeates from within you. Your dress rides up when you shift and though it clings to all the right places you feel nearly exposed. Your hair holds the curls you gave it tight, and you fear that you look almost like you did when you were a little girl. “Rosie Posie and her Shirley Temple curls,” your mother would slur as she took the time to curl your hair for school picture days. You don’t know why that was the one day she chose to play mother, or why you still go warm in the cheeks when you think of those times, but your mother was a mysterious woman and there are some mysteries that simply do not require parsing. 

Sometimes the headaches get so bad that all you can do is take a handful of pills that have been in the cabinet since you were a child and hiding yourself beneath your layers upon layers of blankets. Sometimes, there are whispers in your ear, murmurings of dark gods and darker corners of the universe that you have yet to explore. You feel your brain rattling in your skull and your skin electrified when those dear deadly voices come to you. They whisper promises of strength and vengeance and anything else your lowly mortal heart could desire. When they whisper to you you can’t help but wish to not be so alone in this big house of yours. 

You lose yourself staring in the mirror, your skin is flush because the house is freezing and for a split second you swear you can see something in the back of your throat, eyes, watching you from your inside. You could be sick. You can feel the way the bile crawls up your throat and waits for its chance, but it is a chance it will never get. 

You ignore it. 

Instead, you pick up your phone and look at the text your lovely date for the evening sent you. 

For The Sake Of Clarification, You’ll Be Wearing A Black Dress Tonight, Correct? 

She has texted you this about five times tonight, black dress, black lipstick, and your favorite lilac pumps. She’ll be there to meet you at 8 o’clock sharp in a red dress, black heels, and a green shawl, her hair is short. You smile at the idea of seeing her tonight, from all of the pictures you’ve seen you know that she’s gorgeous and with all of the messages you can’t help but hope that maybe, just maybe, things between the two of you will go well enough to warrant another outing between the two of you. Perhaps next time you’ll go on a picnic together, all decadent pastries and expensive bottles of wine. You nearly swoon at the idea, and your inner romantic is indulged. 

On the top of your hand, where you lean against the sink, you feel the ghost of something skim the top of your hand and your stomach churns. The message is still staring at you, waiting for some sort of answer, but you’re much too engaged in the hand on top of yours, the hand that lies right in your periphery. It’s made almost entirely out of wispy little shadow, something you can’t quite focus on but also can’t quite avoid. It’s cold and rough against your skin, and you feel as each vertebrae gets shot with something that could only liken to the most distinct sort of shocks. You take a long while to recover and when you do you have three more messages waiting for you. 

I Hope That It Isn’t Too Forward That I Plan To Bring Flowers. 

Or Perhaps That Isn’t The Best Idea. I Simply Hope I Am Not Coming Off Too Strongly While Still Displaying My Romantic Interest . 

Don’t worry Kanaya, if anything the initiative you’re showing for this date brings me a sense of comfort, especially since this is the first time I’ve come out in a long while. 

By the way, I would _love_ flowers from you. :) 

You put your phone down and look at yourself in the mirror once more. You look fine, you are fine. You are not the Rose who hides, you are the Rose who flourishes in the sun. You are the Rose whose drunk mother used to drag her downstairs well past her bedtime just to impress all of her haughty scientist friends with her prodigious little spawn. Oh Rosie say this. Oh Rosie do that. Show them how you’re reading those little textbooks of yours. Tell them about how good you do on your tests. You are the Rose who Dave describes when he tries to make you out to be impressive to his friends in the film industry and who Jade loves to call late into the night to talk about anything and everything the expanse of your minds could cover back when you two were kids. You are clever and strong and lovely and hard as a fucking diamond. You are _impossible_. 

You look at yourself one last time and unhinge your jaw. You look deep into the black space behind your tongue and search for it, something, anything. Your jaw hurts the wider you open it, you’re holding it open as you look and when your tongue writhes it makes your stomach twist. It’s there. It’s there deep inside of you waiting to crawl out, waiting for the chance to spring upon you when the moment is right. It’s going to ruin tonight. It’s going to ruin it all. You are impossible and you will be ruined because a diamond is hard and a steel hammer can crush it to bits. You remove your hands from your mouth and wipe your fingers on your skirt. Your face is somehow even redder and the tears rimming your eyes will ruin your eyeliner if you dare let them fall. You fan yourself and take one slow, deep breath. 

This is fine. You’re fine. 

Your Uber shows up in eleven minutes and you refuse yourself the opportunity to stare in another mirror. You sit on the floor of your bedroom, in the dark, clutching a bottle of wine and your manuscript. Your editor will like it if you turn it in on time. Two days. Two days to weave this mystery of the mystery of complacency as if you have not upturned every tone that there could be in such complacency. 

In the dark shadows that aren’t yours dance and you call them fake just like your mother taught you to. 

There are no sounds as you sit there. No noise save for your breaths, shuddered and gentle. This dress that you’re wearing is your mother’s and you hate that you’re acknowledging it, you hate that the bottle of wine you’ve been sipping all night is hers, but more than anything you hate how much you look like her tonight. You hate that with your hair curled and your black lipstick and this dress that clings to your hips you look like her spitting image. Your phone buzzes, you have five minutes before this guy leaves. You fight your way off of the ground and slip on your heels. There’s no longer a time for self pity, nor is there the opportunity for you to back out on this date with this lovely woman you’ve been speaking to for the last six weeks. This is your opportunity for change, your opportunity ~~to be different~~ to be better. 

You cast one last glance at yourself and you can see her, taste the alcohol on her breath as she leans into your face. You force that little Rose smile of yours and comb your fingers through your hair a few times. Your phone buzzes yet again and you run out the door, snatching your coat off the stand fast enough for the poor thing to rattle as you slam the door behind you. The curls are looser now, less tight and young, you feel a tad more like yourself as you reach the car and slump down into the backseat. You regret not checking the license plate but you also have the basic understanding that no one will be able to make it to your house without directions. Not even Dave can handle that and he stays with you every summer to make sure you don’t “succumb to the heat” as he likes to say. 

You press your forehead to the cool glass window and as you do that churning returns. It twists and twists and twists within you and in your reflection you swear for a moment you can see your eyeball falling out of socket. Behind it, a blinding light, one so blinding that you have to turn away. When you look at yourself again you don’t see anything, instead all you feel is the ebbing and flowing of a migraine on your horizon. Fuck. 

Dave likes to visit you every summer, all summer, until the weather gets itself under control and he deems you sane enough to leave until Hanukkah or until he starts wondering if maybe you’re going crazy all over again, it really just depends on which comes first. You’ve only known him for what passes as more than a decade, you met him back when you were both thirteen and found out through the untimely death of your oh so loving mother that you had a twin brother-or rather, have. Dave Strider from Texas, his birthday is one day before yours because he was born at 11:58 pm and you were born at 12:01 am. ~~His dad~~ Your father and your mother seemed to have very distinct disagreements on child rearing, thus leading to a Parent Trap-esque reunion between the two of you, save for the fact that it was over a casket rather than archery. Dave was nearly more torn up about your mother’s death than you yourself were, and it was strange to watch him. Ice cold in his tux, obviously breaking down on the inside over a woman who he hadn’t even known. You pitied him. 

You still do, in a way. 

Dave was the first one to catch you when it happened. You were sixteen years old and living as an emancipated minor on your mother’s lovely estate, ripping your hair out till your scalp bled and pacing the empty halls for hours aimlessly, chasing after ghosts and gods and monsters who hid in wizard statues that you could never quite get rid of. It was summer and your migraines were awful and everything seemed to be falling apart at the seams with you, and Dave came to shoddily stitch you back together. His Bro, as your shared paternal figure enjoys being called to this very day, didn’t care that he was spending his summer in upstate New York apparently, and you didn’t care either because that overwhelmingly haunting loneliness was being finally staved away. You told him about the things you saw and the fears you had and the gut certainty that comes with so many decisions you make and he told you about how time never feels connected for him and how he can seemingly tell the age of most things he comes into contact with. Time has its grip on him, a tight coil around his neck that chokes him until he can breathe in nothing but an understanding of a clock and a lack of movement nearly as horrifying as your own and you are trapped by the white light in your bathroom and the white light in your skull. You are trapped by a light so bright that it shows the way to possibilities you don’t want, answers you don’t need. It prompts the churning in your gut that makes you so sick you can do nothing but heave and gag and spit. 

It always starts during spring, right around John’s birthday, and it ends by the time summer is over. 

The Uber leaves you right outside the restaurant Kanaya is supposed to meet you at. The feeling in your stomach is worse than it was before and you choose to chalk it up to nerves because if it becomes anything else than that then the money you just spent will be worth nothing, as will all of the time you spent preparing for tonight. Just as you allow yourself the standard sigh of preparation, something hits the top of your head, cold and a little damp. You glance up, a sick part of you just hoping it was some simple child who chose to get his fun by fucking with random bystanders, but it isn’t. You know that it isn’t because of the way the clouds are huddled together in the sky and the way the news this morning mentioned rain but you were too busy with your morning glass(es) of white wine to take notice. 

Your madness seems to love the rain, at least, that’s what Dave told you once. You had a summer cold then and barely any memory of what had happened in the last two days, he mentioned something about you running out into the observatory in your pjs during a storm, how he had tried to stop you only to end up losing you in the woods. You came back two hours later mumbling, soaked. You were both seventeen then. Sometimes, when you think of that night, you swear you can hear someone whispering something in your ear that you can’t quite hear. Loud enough for you to know that they’re whispering but never enough. 

You speed walk into the restaurant and approach a hostess whose sharp smile makes you nearly feel a sense of comfort. 

”Name?” 

”Lalonde,” your name comes out of your mouth with such a practiced ease that you nearly feel impressed. 

She keeps that ever sharp looking smile on her face as she reads through the names on the list and the moment her eyes land on yours she nods. 

”And that was a table for two, correct?” 

”Yes,” 

As you follow her, you text Kanaya that you’ve arrived and will be waiting at your table. 

Just mention to them that you’re with Lalonde, party of two, and they should direct you to me. 

Of Course, My Apologies For Being Late As It Were. The Flower Shop Near My House Happens To Be Closed After 6 Much To My Dismay. 

I don’t care how long it takes you to arrive, so long as I have the opportunity to see you tonight. 

The table she brings you to is by the large window overlooking the street and the anxiety you’ve suppressed all night is climbing up the back of your throat like bile. For a moment you think you can fight it, maybe, just maybe it’ll go away on its own just like it did in the Uber, but it doesn’t. Soon, you find yourself leaning over a sink with the unbearable need to retch and when you do you are met with a black slimy fluid staring back at you in the sink. You look at yourself in the mirror. You look good still, as long as you hold it together this date can still go well. It doesn’t matter that you just vomited up the embryo of a god damn shadow. You are Rose Lalonde, you are impossible, you are unbreakable. 

You step out of the bathroom and return to your table with a haste you haven’t experienced in years. You need the chance to recollect yourself before she arrives, but you barely have the time because it is through that big window that you are sitting right beside that you see her, she’s holding black roses as if she has not won your heart already with her words. She looks tall and her legs seem endless beneath her dress. She’s gorgeous, even more gorgeous than the photos you’ve seen of her. This is just great. You drain your complimentary glass of water and keep your phone in a death grip. It isn’t as if she’ll text you again, there’s no reason to. Instead, the hostess will bring her to the table and the date will begin, like a waltz around a ballroom you two will spend the night conversing and laughing and giving the faintest of touches. 

You look at your hands and for a moment they don’t look like yours at all. They’re still pale and the fingers are long, meant to play piano like your mother would always whisper to her guests, but they’re scarred and crooked. These hands that are not yours are held by someone, held by shadows, shadows that coil around and dance with smoke. These hands that are not yours cause destruction on a path that is familiar and yet completely new to you. These hands that are not yours make your tongue speak words that you do not know, a language more dead and gone than you could ever understand. It is unfamiliar as it is known, it is a hellscape that feels like home. You drop your phone into your lap and when it hits you you are set free from this spell. 

The headache is more distinct now. 

When Kanaya approaches you are certain that you are in love with her. She’s stunning, her skin is like copper and her hair looks softer than pictures could have dared to do credit. Her lipstick is darker than the skies outside and it perfectly compliments her dress, blood red. How lovely. Though you would never deign yourself to sink so low, if you happened to notice the way her dress cut at her figure you wouldn’t blame yourself, not when she has such hips, or a chest like that, or arms that look strong enough to crush you. You’re smitten before you’ve even heard a word, and it seems as if she holds similar sentiments if the way that she looks as you is any indicator. You give her the smallest of waves and for a moment things feel like they’ll be alright. Six weeks of talking and everything is going smoother than you would have dared expect, though all that “things” truly encapsulates is the fact that she successfully reached your table without any sort of interception from you or your antics. 

She smiles at you and it feels like relief. 

”Rose?” 

She looks more nervous than giddy now, like being in such proximity is making her more anxious than she expected. You smile at her and nod anyway. Before she even realizes it you’re standing up and approaching her, your phone fell out of your lap and it is all you can do to hope that she didn’t see it. You shorten the distance between you two and the moment that she is within touching distance thunder sounds throughout the restaurant. You both jump. 

”Well then,” you keep your voice from being meek and small “what is that if not the dark gods’ approval of our date tonight?” 

”I suppose that’s how you could see it. Well, anywho, I made sure to bring these.” Her smile is faint and it immediately grows larger upon seeing your reaction to the flowers. 

You hold them close to you and feign surprise that they’re black. 

”I love them.” 

”I’m glad, considering that it was so tough finding a place that dyed flowers on such short notice.” 

You seamlessly shift into sitting at your table and delicately sit the flowers on the window sill, you’ll ask for a vase the first chance you get. 

”Short notice?” You quirk a brow and the face she makes is that of a child caught with their hand in the proverbial cookie jar. 

”Well, I only really determined that bringing flowers was the best course of action yesterday. It was at the encouragement of a friend, as I feared that I would perhaps be ‘doing too much’ for a first date.” 

You huff out a laugh and Kanaya seems offended. You can’t help yourself though, the little giggles and snorts you let out are becoming ridiculous. None of it is as funny as you’re thinking and she’s getting flustered the longer that you laugh. You have to fight to collect yourself and when you do you feel something lifting off of your shoulders. 

”Kanaya, I think flowers are lovely for a first date, especially when said date didn’t have to bring anything except herself.” 

”Is that so?” 

”It is, I hope that I could dare to make it up to you with something like a nice glass of wine maybe?” 

Kanaya relaxes too and when she does the sense of foreboding that has followed you all night dissipates for the moment. 

The date is going well. She’s laughing at your jokes and enjoys the odd stories you have to tell from your youth. You chronicled the time you spent down in Texas with Dave before you had been emancipated and lived with him and his Bro. How you pretended to be his French exchange student sister despite not knowing even a lick of French, the daughter of a very rich and influential politician, you hadn’t expected them to believe you in the slightest. But they were thirteen year old boys, and Dave is more clever than even he himself realizes. What threw the jig was a prank from your now dear friend John, he got you splashed with ice water which led to something of an outburst in perfect English. That is to say, you told him off so loudly and without accent that everyone knew that you and your brother were telling a lie for the fun of it. John, unlike the other kids, seemed to find what you did hilarious, hilarious enough that you all ended up friends. Every day for that span of winter the three of you spent your days together, snowball fights and hot cocoa in John’s yard. It was a lovely little time, and then you turned fourteen, and moved right back up to New York. It’s where you belong, you determined, and Dave swore to come see you every chance he had. 

You don’t tell Kanaya about the things you see when she talks. Blood that changes color and cries of agony, you don’t tell her as you sip your wine that your gut churns and cramps as the rain splatters against the windows. You don’t tell her about the period when you were fifteen and you swore that your skin would turn a deep grey or your body would collapse inward on itself like you were a dying star. You don’t tell her that it still does. You don’t tell her about the way that the rain is making your mind spin . Tap tap tap tap tap. The rain blots you out. Drowns you. Tap tap tap tap tap. The rain is making the feeling worse. Tap tap tap tap tap. You will be consumed like an animal with a parasite. 

Kanaya tells you about her friends as well. She tells you about how much she loves them, how she feels as if they don’t understand that she meddles because of all that love she has. She tells you about how she was once in love with one of those friends in high school and how it burned right to ash. You want to hear more about it all. You want to listen to her cadence and the way her voice is smooth like silk and sweet like your favorite kinds of tea. You want to see her again after this. 

Your headache is worse than it was before and the more you drink the more sloppy your mouth becomes. 

The things you say aren’t quite as clever as they were a moment ago and you’ve drunk through most of your second bottle. You were supposed to share Rose. No need to make her think you’re a drunk. You aren’t a drunk. You are not her. The look she gives you is that you know too well from giving to others, and you worry that she will see you as yet another individual who needs to be fussed over when you have not needed fussing since you were a child. The feeling in your stomach and in your head is overwhelming. The blackness inside of you that has taken root is something larger than that, something worse. You are sick. Sick. Sick. Sick. Sick. _**Sick**_. 

You wipe your mouth with your napkin, “If you could just excuse me for a moment.” 

”Of course,” her eyes are focused on you entirely and it is a feeling that both alienates and comforts you. 

Your stomach cramps more when you stand and you nearly stumble as you make your way toward the bathrooms. You feel like crying and for a moment you almost do. Instead though, you take the emergency exit out. It is less of a conscious thought, more of an action you take and before you are aware of yourself you’re being soaked down to your bones in rain. It’s a real downpour now, and when you look at your hand it is black and wispy. Your body aches. It is begging to be set free, that thing inside of you craves to be released and all you want is for all of it to stop. If the world could freeze for you just a moment, and you nearly wish you were with Dave. The rain pours down on you, bites at your skin as you feel yourself get lost. The street is no longer familiar and neither are you. You stumble out of the back alleyway and onto the sidewalk. Couples cling to each other under umbrellas and cabs are being hailed all around you. 

You start walking. 

You walk for a long time, you don’t know how long. You’re soaked to your core and shivering. You are trapped inside of yourself. Trapped with whispers that are no longer so far away. These are familiar. They are your friends. 

Not John or Jade or your dear brother. 

No, these are the friends that you swore were not real. They are friends who make those endless promises of pleasure so long as you subject yourself to their pain. You sit down on a swing and the rain keeps pouring and pouring and pouring. You are drowning in this darkness of yours. This flower of evil is in bloom and you will be there to hear the rhapsody in all of its glory. You want to let go, release it all and watch it blow into the wind. 

So you do. 

You let it all go, let the rain wash over you and claim you mind body and soul You let those whispers fill your ears. You are somewhere else and you are _angry_. Angry in a way that you never have been before. Angry in a way that is all consuming. Angry like you’re thirteen and your mom just died and there is nothing you can do to bring her back. You are thirteen and angry and imbued with the power of the dark gods. You are twenty-six and you are stuck in an endless cycle of self destruction. You are thirteen and you are twenty-six and you are a corpse walking with light coming out of every orifice. You are twenty-six gripping the dirt as the headache that has been fighting you all night overwhelms your mind and the sickness in your stomach bubbles up. You vomit up the black stuff. It won’t go away. It just keeps coming and coming and coming and from behind your eyes comes a light that is blinding. You light the way and see all those paths you took once before. You are dead and alive and a princess and a god. 

The words whispered to you aren’t real and yet you hear them. 

You see it all because you are there. 

You know the path to take because you went mad to help them. 

Their figures are dim in your memory save for a staircase. 

Kanaya. 

Out of your mouth comes a cry that rattles you down to your core. It is the pain of a thousand Roses, all of which have faced the kind of excruciating death that you are facing now. You’re dying. You are sure of it down to your core. You are dying and it hurts and you are scared. You are a dying star fizzling out in the most ugly of ways. The rain comes down in sheets and the light behind your eyes doesn’t stop. You can’t move, you simply spit up the blackness from within you and writhe against the hold on you, but then there’s a hand in your hair. It strokes you gently and though it should not be it is familiar. It is loving. 

You slump down and the feeling of death is instead replaced by something both warm and cold. 

Kanaya has you pressed against her chest and her hands keep running through your hair despite the rain coming down just as violently. It is in this rain that you grapple on to her and grip her tight in your arms. She is steady and warm and the scent of her makes you feel nearly whole and before you realize it you are in tears. You are sobbing in her arms as she coaxes you into calm. The whispers are still there, but they are overpowered by the sound of blood beating in your ears. You are a girl on fire tonight, a dangerous sort of kindling within you that it seems like Kanaya does not fear. You choose not to fear yourself either, not tonight. 

You wipe your mouth on the back of your hand and you kiss her. 

She pulls away almost immediately and you are this close to losing it all over again. It was a foolish mistake that you made. You were being presumptuous to say the least and after the way she so successfully calmed you down you cannot believe that you had the audacity to try and kiss her. You are disgusting and you really should-her hand is on your cheek. Her hand is on your cheek, gently stroking the hair matted to your face from your sweat and the ice cold rain. 

”Rose, though I would love to engage in something as romantic as a first kiss in the rain, you’ve just thrown up.” 

You clear your throat, “You’re right. My apologies,” you try to keep a handle on yourself as if she did not just watch you fall apart at the seams “maybe if you’re willing you could...come with me back to my place and we could try out the first kiss a second time?” 

Kanaya giggles in a way that makes you think you’d like to do more than kiss her and agrees. 

In your periphery you can still see them, reaching out to you, telling you to let them in. Release the light Rose, set yourself free to the violence. Crush it all in your fist and carve out the perfect path. You will control the narrative, you will know all. 

The drive to your house takes place in Kanaya’s car rather than the back of a stranger’s and she leaves the heat on for the sake of the two of you. You’re both shivering in your seats and you can hear her mutter under her breath that this dress is ruined. You try to apologize to her but instead she just asks that you make it up to her with another date. You don’t understand what you’ve done well tonight but the knowledge that you’ve wooed a woman as lovely as her imbues you with a sense of pride that you haven’t felt in a long time. Across the center console you hold hands, her thumb running over your knuckle as you finally allow yourself the chance to truly relax tonight. 

You wonder if perhaps there was something in those visions you never realized, but they don’t matter, not now, not with her. 

You brush your teeth and spend at least five minutes swishing and gargling and trilling minty freshness into your mouth before you reveal yourself to Kanaya once more. You are still soaked down to your core, your make up is smeared and the remnants of what came out of you sit beneath your nails and in the red liveliness of your skin in a way that you know a simple shower won’t wash out, but it doesn’t matter. It cannot matter when a woman lovely as her sits on your comforter, soaking it in her pretty red dress and with her lovely slender hands. 

You take one of those hands between your own and press a kiss to her wrist. She doesn’t shy away from it. You move up her arm and toward her neck, allowing your tongue to parse your lips and taste the bitterness of the perfume on her neck. She shivers under your touch and by the time you make it to her mouth you cannot help but find that you are outside of yourself. Rather than something like the horror of tonight, it’s better. It’s something that is freeing in an entirely unfamiliar way. The first kiss you give Kanaya is tentative at best, a surge forward that is a declaration of peace rather than a fight, nearly chaste save for the way you savor the taste of her bottom lip between your own. Her hands find their way to your sides and she is just as cold as you are. You kiss her again, and this time it is something deeper, your tongue moves tentatively and hers meets you with an ease of familiarity. 

Her body meshes with yours in a way that you haven’t had the chance to experience with the few others you’ve taken and it is almost instinctive in the way that Kanaya understands your body. She knows all the dos and don'ts without you having to speak and it seems that you understand her just as well. You move gently with her and she moves roughly with you, she squeezes your thigh and you gasp when she digs her fingers into your skin just enough. You lave your tongue over her jaw and nip with the faintest of teeth and she lets out a sigh that is wanton in a way that you had not imagined sighs to be. 

She brings her hands to the back of your dress and finds the ten little buttons you somehow managed by yourself and unhooks them with an ease so practiced you have to wonder how many other women she’s done this for. You can’t focus on something like that now though, not when the top of your dress is falling away and her hands are trailing up your spine. Her touch leaves a trail of fire against you and as you kiss the familiarity makes itself greater. This is comfort. This is affection. This is something you’d fight for. Her hands move up to the back of your bra and before she has the chance to unhook it you bring your hand to her chest and tweak her nipple through the fabric. She jumps and lets out a squeak that is nothing short of adorable. You are ridiculously into this woman. 

It is in that moment that you take your opportunity, pulling away at the top of her dress to reveal her body in all its naked glory, save for the undergarments she chose to wear for her lower half. It doesn’t matter though because shortly thereafter you’re the one on your back rather than her. You don’t know exactly when it happened, but now Kanaya is pressing pitch black kisses against your skin and leaving little bites on your neck that leave you soaked. She is quick and efficient in her movements and in the dark she looks like the most seductive kind of creature. Lower and lower and lower she goes until suddenly she’s between your legs with her mouth on your thigh. She’s sucking a particularly harsh bruise into the skin there. 

The way that Kanaya eats you out, in terms that are less than ladylike, is fucking amazing. She sucks your clit with a fervency that only the best of toys have reserved for you and her fingers seem to work magic inside of you. You would call her a witch if not for the fact that you are too involved with gripping her hair for dear life and squeezing the sides of her face with your thighs. 

You don’t have to think when she leaves you with your chest heaving. You don’t have to worry or wonder when you are subjected to the way her tongue worms its way inside of you, hot and thick. She is all that there is as you press her ice cold dress to your face and take in her scent. She is everything that you need. She gives her tongue a break sometimes, fucking into your shallowly with her fingers while you mouth out words from forgotten languages. Her chin is soaked with your fluids and she kisses your thigh to let you know just how wet you’ve gotten her face. You want to go down on her. You want the first opportunity to explore the tastes and sounds she has to offer you, but for now you will be indulged like this. 

You can still feel it under your skin, writhing, waiting. It always will be and you refuse to acknowledge the weakness that stabbed through your bones tonight. Instead you will allow yourself this moment of clean happiness, of back arching and toe curling pleasure that Kanaya so easily presents you with. You don't need to think of those friends or that darkness of yours. They don't matter here or now because you are still the impossible little diamond that you've always been. 

Kanaya abuses your body in the best of ways, with teeth and tongue and kisses that will stay with you longer than your memories. Her touch is warmer than it was before and she lights that kindling inside you in a way that you have not felt before. She constantly carries a sense of Deja vu so strong that it is overwhelming, _she_ is overwhelming. She is an intoxicating creature that you cannot help but crave more and more of. When you cum your eyes screw shut and your hands pull at her curls so hard you worry about pulling them out, and melt into jelly. You don't mean to, nor do you plan to stay that way, but as you look down at her, right between your legs, those eyes so new and familiar to you, you feel at home. 

You are a diamond shattered to pieces but perhaps a bit of jade can make you whole.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi kudos, comments, etc are greatly appreciated and there is a 99% chance that if you comment I'll reply.
> 
> @tamyura__on twt  
> @porcelain.babies on insta


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